The Weight

This weight on my chest,

this sullen sadness—tell me, Doctor,

how I can lift it up and set it down.

I want to be reassured by a fact,

by some measurable fever.  To say:

That’s why I need to sleep.

And no—

this isn’t what I felt last week.

And yes, I’d like to have the past back.

But what would I do with it except what I did?

If I walk out into the garden, Doctor,

will loveliness help?

This sadness,

this weight on your chest—

why shouldn’t it hurt?  Perhaps

it will pass.

Perhaps you will find

some necessary task, one you may believe

you can’t undertake.  Don’t think about it.

Happiness isn’t any easier to explain.